


Silver Camellias

by halsyg



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, Confessions, Dimidue Week 2019, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prose Poem, Purple Prose, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halsyg/pseuds/halsyg
Summary: The heart yearns, it longs for what it does not have; not because it can, but because it must. Silver Camellias bloom upon a riverbank of deep blue, with a love unrequited rooting it... And his heart sounds out, tender and silent as the moonlight ripples upon the water.[Dimidue Week 2019 drabble collection]





	1. Blossoming Gardenia. (day 1 - cooking // sickness or injury)

* * *

* * *

Some find their solace in the company of others, some find their reason in music, some find their truth in art; Dedue found his own in the quiet passion of gardening.

Silence, Calmness; the gentle din of soil being shoveled, metal occasionally grazing the terracotta pots in which Dedue filled. It was the quiet moments like these that he cherished. Moments where time seemed to stand still, moments where he could allow himself respite… it soothed his burdened soul, the soft tune of a draft blowing in through the open greenhouse doors, rustling through the trees and foliage that he so carefully catered to. A trowel clutched ever so firmly delved through the soil, the home of a former plant now here to bring new life to a budding sprout.

T ’was a queer symbiosis, the relationship between soil and seed. Through the life and death of one being, it enriched the lands & helped another life grow… Dedue felt it was much like how humankind works. The people aid each other, and yet they so fervently tear each other apart if given the chance. Humans fought loudly, with blood and blade; however, plants fought silently

A quick glance around the lot would tell you all you needed to know about the greenhouse. Burgeoning bushels of leaves and flowers, enticing aromas, and the ever-present splashes of colour which harkened to spring’s brief coming. The thriving nature of each plant, each sprout, each flower – it was more or less entirely Dedue’s doing. For as long as he has been a student within the Monastery, he had been tending to the gardens. From the very first moment he arrived, he was drawn to the impressive crystalline building which housed such unique forms of life; Dimitri’s insistence on him obtaining a hobby of sorts didn’t help his fascination in the slightest, despite Dedue’s prior reluctance to pick one up. (Dimitri always knew of his green thumb, perhaps he was simply pushing him to break out of his comfort zone.) He took a deep breath. Savouring each hint of floral aroma that graced his nose, he shut his eyes. For once, the shadows of his mind were not plagued with the afterburn of dying flames, but instead lay silent like the bask of night upon a river; for once, his heart no longer panged with the melancholy thrum of the past.

…It longed instead.

* * *

Truth be told, he was lonely. Unfathomably so. Those who approached him approached solely to mock and belittle him, and those who did not merely feared him. Avoided him. A gentle, tender heart lie yearning behind the goliath frame & external barricades built not by himself, but by those around him; and covetously, it pined to engage with others. Purely and gingerly as it could, the man’s heart desired company & a sense of belonging.

Thusly, he made friends in the form of plants.

As a child, he rarely spoke. It was difficult for him to do so. Forging bonds came so easily to his comrades, and yet for Dedue, he simply couldn’t understand others. From brief interactions, Dedue picked out qualities & interests from those around him – he used those as points of conversation. It became easier to speak, but maintaining a conversation became increasingly difficult. Eventually, his frustrations with himself & the difficulty he had connecting to others melted away into silence once more. He was a wallflower, watching the world from a distance, his only friends being the vines and blooms which grew alongside him and the cobbled stone floors of his room.

A lonely man desiring friends as deeply as Dedue learns to associate personalities to those who do not wish to speak to him. Acting as the shadow of a man dear to him allowed him to learn as such. Piece by piece, conversation by conversation, he merely observed regardless of how much he desired to speak up and forge his own bonds; the overwhelming sense of guilt that Dedue felt by merely standing amongst his peers was crushing. So, he took to practicing conversations with the flowers.

The dissonance within his mind that prevented him from functioning as those around him did seemed to vanish when in the realm of his interests. After all, the flowers never mocked; the flowers never spoke. He could vent his grief, his woes, his frustration… whatever ailed him, the flowers were there. All they could do was listen, and Dedue appreciated their silent company with a greater passion each day.

As lonely a life as it was, Dedue was happy.

* * *

Upon enrolling at the Monastery, he still found it difficult to maintain conversation with his classmates and colleagues. However, as always, Dedue picked apart personalities and interests; Each person earned a bloom in the greenhouse that bore the same traits as they. His arrival in the greenhouse today saw him tending to several of the aforementioned blooms. The sunflowers, which he often likened to Raphael, stood as tall and as bold as ever; a persistent beacon of rugged sunlight, one radiating warmth and happiness. A rosebush grew brooding in the far corner, as Felix often did; a man who bore thorns such as he frequently possessed something beautiful hidden deep within. Forget-Me-Nots symbolized remembrance, and the small blooms which shied away from the morning sun starkly reminded him of Bernadetta. Obviously, in Dedue’s eyes, the Snapdragon’s tiny yet ferocious figure bore resemblance to Caspar.

He allowed himself to take a brief moment of respite, seating himself amongst the shade of the forested canopy. A small pot lay cradled within his arms, the new home of the sprout he had planted mere moments before. This bloom would not make its way into the conglomerate of his usual floral friends. This plant, in Dedue’s eyes, was special - moreso than the rest.

Within the pot, there grew a sole Gardenia.

Freedom, understanding, trust… protection. A bloom ever so delicate, yet robust. Often given to convey hidden feelings of love. The varied meanings of the Gardenia bloom were all likened to one individual. A sole person, unto whom he owed his very life. A delicate finger parted the stark white petals of the Gardenia, and Dedue found himself gazing longingly towards the budding life within his grasp.

A rare smile crossed his face. Softly, he spoke to himself, as if rehearsing for a speech.

_“I pray these flowers will be proof of how much you mean… not just to the people of the Kingdom, but to me as well. You are irreplaceable.”_

Though he spoke from the heart, not a soul was around to hear; no one but the trees and the sky heard his heartfelt musings.

_“…You are cherished… Dimitri. Please, remember that.”_

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the prompts dont say gardening today but it was originally my intention to have cooking/gardening be the theme today & i forgot we . didnt wind up going with that . so just bear with me i have 2 brain cells


	2. Tangling Thorns. (day 2 - domestic & marriage // scars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> scars, the language of the body - a story chronicled not in words, but in wayward markings. yet still, chapters remain unwritten; stories remain unspoken.
> 
> [mild trigger warning for gender dysphoria & self-harm mentions.]

* * *

* * *

Scars. No warrior was complete without. A myriad of markings adorned his frame; his body, a temple, defiled and desecrated by the faded memories of wounds long since healed. A list of conquest and collapse tailed each blemish he bore. An interlude; a moment of respite between the battles of their campaign.

Dedue found that he rather enjoyed the missions upon which they traveled. From the furthest reaches of Fódlan to mere paces from the Monastery, each journey allowed for growth, improvement upon one’s self. Though the journeys themselves were educational at heart, the wounds one earned in battle were all too real.

Brief was the time spent reminiscing, though eternally doth the memories flow.

By candlelight, Dedue remained awake. The chill of the mountain air outside roused him from his slumber hours ago, and the silent midnight hours wore on in the company of a book of poetry. The tent’s open flap swayed in tandem with the tents of his allies which lie silent, save for the occasional shift of fabric or stirring of those who slept within. His allies remained closely hitched around his perimeter; for once, he could relax.

Dedue’s eyes wearily trailed across page after page of Duscur poetry. Though subdued, his heart fell into a gentle sort of warm rhythm when he allowed himself the simple pleasure of reminiscing on his homeland. However, the late hour began to grate at him; his eyes wandered, and eventually fell upon a row of several scars across his arm. Perpendicular and flawlessly aligned, there was only one method of obtaining such a wound. Those were scars obtained from a duel with a claw-bearing enemy.

…A Calico, if his memory served him correct.

With a chuff, Dedue shifted his focus back towards the book within his calloused hands. How unbefitting of him, a stalwart shield bucking under the weight of a kitten. Regardless of what methods he tried, he simply could not shift his focus back to the paper. Perhaps it was the candlelight, or the late hour, but his eyes refused to process the words he read any longer; the script trailed across the page like ants marching onwards. Thusly, he shut the book, laying it to rest upon the burlap sack beside his bedroll which held his possessions & armour.

Once more, his eyes wandered across his own body. Perhaps tonight was not a night of reading, but one of continued self-discovery and introspection.

Brawny forearms to toned biceps, and towards his chest; he paused. Jarring, he became aware once more; even the bulky sweater he wore could not mask this aspect of himself he loathed so. Of all the things he could detest, ‘twas not one that most loathed. Many hate their bodies, though Dedue felt much stronger than that; the disconnect between his self and his being was apparent, and woundingly present.

Instead of the scars he bore, his mind was currently more fixated on those which he did not possess. No amount of puncture wounds, visceral tears, or clean cuts would bring him as much self-fulfilled glory as those he would obtain from severing his breasts from his being. Though he bound and masked however he could, it was not enough; it was never enough. So many scars lined his body, and yet two simple marks that he did not possess still brought him such agony. Though advancements in magic allowed him to mature into the body he knew he desired, there were still aspects of it which existed solely to bring him strife & discomfort.

Some day… some day soon. For now, all he could do is hope.

Dedue couldn’t bear to look at his own body any more. If his chest brought him that much pain, Gods forbid what may occur if his thoughts wandered off southwards. Something which brought him joy, something kind; eyes shifted to the figure of the man sleeping mere feet away. Despite the temperature, Dimitri still slept in little but his smallclothes. Disturbed as his particular habits were, Dedue still counted his blessings numerous times, for no amount of thanks could truly extend his feelings to the man. He was blessed; as his saviour & paragon experienced the very same disconnect as he. He understood… he understood.

Dimitri possessed scars from protecting Dedue. He revered them, as his heart blazed with the spirit of a devoted protector; an aegis for those who could not fight for themselves. He possessed scars inflicted upon himself, ones that Dedue constantly assured him did not make him anything lesser – everyone struggles. Everyone suffers. Everyone is capable of healing. When new ones appeared, Dedue offered his support as a shoulder to cry on, and as a resource for emotional reassurance. The fugacious moments they were born of did not make his Highness undeserving of happiness. Each curt line upon Dimitri’s forearms, Dedue mused, was indicative of each day he spent within the darkness – and through the process of healing, it now seemed to represent an odd tally mark of each day spent on the journey to recovery.

It was a painful memory, he understood that… He did not wish for his musings to cause His Highness any pain. Assigning this positive to such a negative seemed to aid Dimitri in accepting himself, and bettering his flaws.

Dimitri possessed scars of what once was; of what Dedue still possessed.

Emotional, physical, Dimitri healed… Dedue merely stagnated. Perhaps he was jealous; perhaps that much was true. Jealous of Dimitri’s progress. Though His Highness reassured him constantly that he too could heal – that they could heal together. All too often would he doff his own emotions to support those around him, and he knew it was not helping him in the least... though he felt as though he had no worth as a human. Dimitri taught him otherwise.

Since they met, they had been by each other's side; through thick and thin, through calm and storm, through whatever crossed their eternally co-joined paths. The red string of fate that bound them together had bound them for a reason. Kindred souls of a similar state of being, both body and mind. 

Dedue’s physical scars have faded, though his mental scars are still fresh. It takes time; time that he knows Dimitri will always spare for him. Time that Dedue will gladly repay.

And for that, he is thankful.

* * *

_"...Goodnight, My Liege. Rest well." _

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i called nintendo and they said that dedue hasn't had top surgery yet
> 
> https://twitter.com/GEATHJERK  
https://twitter.com/DimidueWeek


	3. Obscured Gladiolus. (day 3 - au day // theater au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unspoken lie the words written within the script of one's soul; only he who may discover them know their true meaning. a pantomime, dreaming fleeting dreams of what was; of what is, and of what may be.

* * *

* * *

Education bore many aspects, existing as a multi-faceted branch of youth which sprouted off and grew alongside those who trod within its shade. Academia and achievement combined, it lulled along as a constant dance between both time & skill. The system was quite clearly rigged in favour of those who excelled in both time management and organization, and it left those who struggled with executive comprehension, mental health issues, and any other such issues far, far behind; it was woefully one-sided.

Dedue knew both sides of the coin that made up education. For years, he was an above-average student; as he matured, though, he found himself slipping out of focus more and more often. The system did not wish to accommodate him, and thus he suffered; and at that point, Duscur chose to train him with weapons as a warrior. It was a process that came naturally to him, regardless of how unsavoury the end result of war was, and so there he remained for many of his teenage years. T’was all prior to the tragedy, however. Through Dimitri, Dedue found himself within a classroom once more.

However, in all his years of struggling through the system of public education, Dedue had never once encountered a teacher such as Byleth.

They were patient and understanding; something that the teachers he had in the past never were. They possessed the divine ability to connect with each and every member of their class, effectively spinning a web of steel-strong bonds amongst classmates as though they were a spider. Most importantly, in Dedue’s eyes, was the fact that they understood. The minute struggles of a student would fall upon eyes shut tight in any other classroom, however prevalent their issues may be. No one person is without flaw; and Byleth knew that, Byleth accepted that. They helped each member of the class become the best version of themselves that they could possibly become. Each individual flourished; each individual prospered.

…However, such an open and self-cherishing class often posed some minor issues. Particularly when personalities of such self-assured individuals met; they had an unfortunate tendency to clash. Especially amongst the males of the class.

Thus, Byleth took it unto their own hands to ease the rampantly deficient chemistry.

Drama class.

* * *

Clustered upon the lush green turf of the courtyard, there stood of poised figures, thirteen; each male student of Garreg Mach Monastery. The tension in which the field basked was nigh palpable. Though many got along stunningly, there were occasional spats between those who did not mesh as well as their peers. Byleth addressed the rag-tag band of boys, meticulously signing the plans for their lesson. At first, the hand gestures merely went over the typical housekeeping rules of such a class, though the eventually devolved into what can only be translated as “Please just tolerate each other for a week while we develop the production. Do not fuck this up for me or else I will never host an outdoor class again.”

The cast of the production had already been decided prior to the beginning of the class. Proficiency in tactics was Byleth’s calling card ad typicam, however a new hidden boon had stepped into the spotlight that morning; with the rustle of pages in the wind and carried upon the dulcet tones of a brief vocal warmup, Byleth’s skill in casting musical productions was cast forth.

In stark letters upon the bound pages, it read “The Phantom of the Opera.”Each set of hands gripped a separate copy of a script, thirteen pairs as unique as he who bore them.

… and within one set, there lie a pilfered mask of Jeritza’s. 

Dedue would never dare doubt the proficiency of his teacher, though he was… shocked, to say the absolute least. He considered himself to be, without contest, the least expressive and least capable man for any given role in this production. Yet regardless, here he stood; Dedue cautiously traced a finger across the stark ridges of the half-mask which had been less than elegantly deposited into his unwilling hands. 

He was to be the Phantom of the opera, and Dimitri, his Christine.

* * *

The two rehearsed their scenes together at the far corner of the grassy field. With occasional counsel from Byleth (and now Manuela, who had caught wind of the event and graciously volunteered herself as the show’s musical director) the two practiced with the very same vigour they put into their training.

In sleep he sang to me,  


The process had only just begun, and yet Dedue still found himself growing increasingly anxious.

in dreams he came.

That voice which calls to me,  
and speaks my name…

“Dedue. Is something the matter?”

* * *

Speak of the devil, and he doth reply. Dimitri approached, resting his hand delicately upon Dedue’s bicep.

I am the mask you wear…

“Ah… Your Highness,” Dedue spoke, cautiously ensuring that no hint of his flustered state of mind was revealed in his words. “Your concern is appreciated. I assure you, however, I am fine.” Avert his gaze; don’t meet his eye. Dedue was his shield, and such a fault – a fault of the heart, one which weakened him & set a flurry of emotion to writhe in his stomach, was unbefitting of a man such as he.

It's me they hear

“Nonsense, Dedue. We have been in each other’s company for years now, I am more than aware of your tells…” The hand which once lie upon Dedue’s crossed arms now shifted to his wrist, plucking it away from the other appendage. “…You always grasp that part of your arm far too tightly when you’re nervous. If you are worried about the production, we can discuss potential accommodations with Byleth…” His tone was unbefitting to be directed towards Dedue. Something simple, something sweet and reminiscent; a caring yet stern tone laced his words like nectar, one dulcetly sweet indulgence for Dedue’s ears… He cared… Truly…?

Those who have seen your face…

…By the Gods, what was he thinking? Such feelings were never to be reciprocated. They couldn’t be reciprocated. Hey couldn’t possibly be. Stifled was the flame of his heart; and he knew Dimitri was better off not getting burned.

  
…Draw back in fear.

“Do you not remember that time you bruised yourself doing this? I spent hours worrying about who had done that to you. Imagine my surprise when I noticed the very trend which caused them.” Snapped out of his brief (self-decreed to be salacious) reverie, Dedue maintained an impassive façade as he met eyes with Dimitri.

…His eyes. By the Gods, his eyes. They hurt to gaze so deeply into.

…And do I dream again?  
For now I find

“…Ah. My apologies, Your Highness. I will be sure to watch my composure.”

The Phantom of the Opera is there…

“…Stay by my side, Dedue. If you’ll humour me, we can work through this next scene together.”

“Of course, Your Highness. It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

Something unspoken can truly speak volumes. Together, passionately does each note of their strange duet strike. Harmonies melded, a flawless match; deep baritone and soothing tenor resounded as a cool breeze ruffled through the pages they shared. Though hearts remain barricaded and yearning for a healing touch, the sole movement made was the rehearsed steps of their dances.

…Painfully rehearsed; their individual facades and hidden feelings had to break character at some point. No great actor can avoid it, regardless of how many years one has been within this persona. Eventually they would find themselves healing… though the silent blossom of unspoken love lies deep within the process. As light can not be without darkness, so too do their bonded hearts beat; never one without the other, through thick and thin… through even the quietest music of the night, a song with room for two still sounds out.

Blue eyes, golden lips; shrouded in darkness, the heart still beats.

The heart still heals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me lord for i am a theater kid


	4. Mourning Begonia (day 4 - reunion // timeskip)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guilt. unbearable, overwhelming guilt. time passes, wounds heal, but guilt never disappears.
> 
> [tw for vague descriptions of assault.]

* * *

* * *

years may pass,

time may skip;

but the mind never forgets.

five years, he has spent at his side.

five years, he has repressed

every last feeling.

unholy, unholy; the fire burns. eternally the bells doth clang

dissonance of the mind; of the body; of the soul

basked eternally in flame, a battle rages on

one fought not within the confines of the field, but

instead within the mind.

further, further; does he slip, or does he stay?

the fury of the battlefield clouds over

and mankind becomes shield,

mankind becomes sword,

mankind becomes the very steel wrought once to solve

and twists it.

not a care is given to those

who are trod upon,

who are blamed,

and mankind turns face.

* * *

are we man

or are we monster? 

* * *

with cold hands that grasped his body

cruelly, spitefully, phantom memories

of violation

of destruction

of the casualties of war

planted themselves across his skin

as identical and familiar as the torture which had happened years ago.

guilt latches on 

and the body yields;

succumbing to flame and ash, stained

poisoned by the blood of his ancestors

painted into the picture by those who shattered him

and all he can do is watch as everything

he loved is burned

away to little

more than

dust.

* * *

guilt.

unfathomable guilt.

that of the survivor,

overbearing and cruel.

when the battle is won

(although there are never victors in war)

he cries;

tears of sorrow,

tears longing for what was lost.

guilt.

pure, crushing

guilt. 

nothing but; nothing else.

tearing him down

with the hands

of all those who

fell to his blade.

* * *

holy, holy; a ray of light shines and cuts through the darkness

though its wings are mangled, and its soul is burdened

much as his is

it still helps;

it shows that there is hope.

and hope he does.

suffering in silence as sinews are torn,

and flesh is rendered by his hand.

he sees nothing,

nothing but the day he left behind

when the rest of his life rose as the sun does.

he who lives as the sole flame from dying embers cast,

lives as though he is in death.

for the sun does not shine, nor do the stars twinkle;

all they do is mock as

his mind’s eye, borne of trauma and suffering

lies stark open in the darkness.

* * *

blue skies, blue eyes; a lion stalks.

parting the clouds as though it were a sunbeam

shining away from its pride, the wounded wildebeest before its feet grovels

and to the wildebeest, the lion pities.

to the lion, the lion loves.

despite injury, despite trauma,

despite instinct, the lion has faced the same

and wishes not for fangs to pierce and devour,

but instead for the guise of beasts and war

to melt away

at long last.

leaving only the man, the heart, the spirit

and the love they share.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went a bit more poetic than usual for this one ,,, really wanted to sorta get inside dedue's head somehow. am i projecting? maybe. 
> 
> im crowdfunding dedue's next therapy session


	5. Stained Lillies. (day 5 - holiday festivities // the battlefield)

Dedue was never one for war. 

His life was peaceful once; before gaining the knowledge of battle, before discovering the darker corners of humankind, merely existing within his own hamlet and quietly cultivating the vibrant blossoms that dotted the dappled wilds of his homeland. Truth be told, Duscur’s being once lie founded upon the pretense of trade, so he never quite understood the need for war. At least, he never understood until it was forced upon him. With smog and ash blanketing those blossoms he once tended to so carefully, war came to him and made itself known. 

Dedue’s being lent itself to battle easily. Stocky, robust, and of full frame, he was an obvious choice for a warrior; nevermind his gentle nature, his quiet demeanor, his do-no-harm mentality. All that mattered was his potential to brandish a weapon - his inherent ability to kill. Nevermind the fact that Dedue could barely bring himself to cull the heads of a withering rose. He found it disgusting. The knowledge that men would take another’s life for power, for pride, for the satisfaction of being better than those who you deem beneath you; devolving into a twisted monster of a being, still remaining with the facade a man on the surface. 

Yet still, it was a cruel sort of symbiosis; this knowledge, alongside his duty as a warrior. It gave him a sense of solace to know that all those who fought and died around him were pawns as he was. Kindred souls, perhaps even as tender as he, all hardened by the shock of war. 

When he arrived at the monastery, he found such souls within its ranks. Those who he would have once taken up arms against were now his comrades, who raised swords not against, but with him. Dedue was thankful for the respite it brought. 

However, peace comes at a price. That much, he knew. 

War changes all those who witness it. Haunting memories, battles replaying over and over again, a sheer sum of dissonance that would drive a person mad; for some, it was too much. For Dedue, it was too much. The dissociative fugue that shrouded him during the moments of calm and an omnipresent rattling within his chest from an injury long since closed, the trembling of his hands as he stoked the fires, and the unbearable, crushing silence that laced its way through each and every person on the battlefield. It was too much. Even as he lay, sleeplessly resting, his hands still shake and his heart still thrums. He sought to quell these flames, yet felt as though he only fanned them further. Gone were his days of innocent hope; the hope that some day soon, the battles would cease for good and the dying wish that the flowers he once knew would bloom evermore.  
Now, he understood that man only fought to end all fighting; Paradoxical at best, cruel and never-ending at worst. This metaphorical man was not the instigator, but the victim of the actions of those who pull the strings beyond morals and dignity. 

And so, he fights; not for himself, not for anyone else. He fights to end the war. 

At one point, Dedue lost himself. The voracious appetite of war had consumed what he once held dear, and his world began to crumble. The monastery, the allies he made - they were all taken from him. He was forced to turn back to the life he struggled to abandon. The mindlessness of it all was unbearable; with each life he reluctantly took, he fell yet further into despair. At this point, he fought to free himself from this personal hell of his. He fought to die. He fought as it was truly all he could do. When he was not upon the battlefield, he took up the maladaptive hobby collecting scars that still line his arms to this very day. He considers them a badge, as he has risen far beyond the depths of his deepest desperation. 

Unwilling, unknowing; war changes people. For better or for worse, it changes people. 

A kind-hearted soul trapped within a wrought-iron cage, the nettled thorns of a rose intertwined with the stinging iron bars and sinking deep enough to draw blood. Deep enough to draw forth the painful memories that once lie repressed for the greater good. 

...And that’s all there is anymore; memories. 

But when you stand there amidst blood and battle, cradling the shattered body of the only man who sought to care for you, the raging rapids of war’s song become little more than a dull thrum. Those memories form a cacophonous chorus chanting a dissonant screech within your skull.  
As though listening to one’s own heartbeat, the gruesome sonnet rang behind his ears. Each memory of the battles he has faced flooded him once more, numbing his senses. Every last scar upon his body burned as though ignited, and cold ichor ran through his veins; he was no longer himself. He was no longer a man. He was no longer whole.

Tears in his eyes and fire in his soul, he cut a swath through all those who opposed him and cradled that which gave him life. Carving through crowds of parents, siblings, lovers, those who too were admitted unwillingly to war, he cared not anymore. The sole thing keeping him stable was lost. The lives he once cherished now lie strewn about his feet, their blood on his hands, staining a soul still laden with grief yet. Familiar faces pierced him with their gazes from across the battlefield - from the opposing side. It hurt. It hurt so unbearably much. Each life he took weighed on him yet heavier than anything he had ever felt. Everything was lost. Everything was gone. All that remained were monsters and men. 

He fled as far as he could. He slumped to his knees before Dimitri’s corpse and sobbed, bitter tears that fell only to curse whatever vengeful god had done this to him. He cursed the war that had taken his soul, his heart, his feelings; his innocence. He cursed each tear that fell and shook his world with the force of a thousand feet marching to battle. He cursed each plea for Dimitri’s life, as all were met with silence; he knew he would never receive an answer, yet he begged anyways. 

Dedue no longer knew what he fought for in that moment.

But today, he fights for him. 

He who gave him a second chance, he who allowed him to be what he always desired. The man who saw a broken-down husk of a warrior and instead of raising a hand against, extended one instead. 

...Perhaps he was the monster. Perhaps he was the one that war sought to stop. 

Thus, a monster he became. 

And that’s all there is; memories of an event he can no longer remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [has never played the black eagles route] man so about that part where dedue becomes a monster to avenge dimitri huh 
> 
> i know that dimidue week is over but im the one who organized it so My City Now

**Author's Note:**

> follow me :  
https://twitter.com/GEATHJERK  
https://twitter.com/DimidueWeek  
DIMIDUE DISCORD SERVER - https://discordapp.com/invite/SqhSNNn


End file.
